Page 72 of Lovesick
KNOX
No. They were so hot. I was going to get my ménage à trois cherry popped. I need time to grieve this loss.
CREW
Oh, here. I’ll help you out.
Crew removed Knox from the conversation
20
LITTLE MISS PERFECT
MERIT
Idon’t know what’s worse: having to sit through my dad’s lecture or doing so while afflicted with one of the worst hangovers of the century.
“Where were you last night, Merit?” my father asks, palms splayed on the dining table as he hangs his head, the deep, trembling bass of his voice battering my addled brain.
God, everything hurts. The noise is too loud, the lights are too bright, and my throat is dry and scratchy from going allExorcistover Crew’s shoes. I’m not even sure how I’m awake right now.
Actually, Iwouldbe all snug in my bed if it wasn’t for my dad calling me twenty times in a row at seven in the morning.
Crew stayed with me last night. Not only that, but when I was awakened at an ungodly three a.m. because of my pea-sized bladder, he was still spooning me. Then, when I got back into bed, he Velcroed himself to me again like it was as natural as breathing. And I, for once—being a known cover-hogger and victim of restless leg syndrome—was so placated by Crew’s arms that I didn’t leave him to freeze or kick him off the bed.
Everything was going so well. I mean, I don’t rememberanything that happened, but I think it went well considering that Crew didn’t run for the hills after I DIY-ed his sneakers in regurgitated Jell-O.
I fiddle with my pewter-colored ring—the small, bothersome culprit responsible for my father pulling me out of bed before noon. I’m thankful it doesn’t connect to my location.
“I was just at a small kickback with Irelyn,” I lie, rubbing my forehead with the heel of my palm as if the pressure will mitigate the migraine crushing my skull like a garbage compactor.
Is lying the best way to approach the situation? No, but I’m really not in the mood for an all-out admonishment.
My stomach hollows with hunger or nausea or a repulsive combination of both, and phosphenes hang in a shadowy parasol over my dull-edged vision.
“Your heart monitor app said that your heart rate was in the one-thirties,” my mother relays, the frown on her lips emphasizing the crow’s feet by her sage eyes.
Speaking of hearts, mine doesn’t like being in such a compromising situation. The ring on my finger is practically a pocket-sized lie detector. “I was dancing a lot.”
“For two hours straight?”
I swear I’m never the type to talk back to my parents, but ever since they crane-lifted me out of New Jersey and dropped me in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, resentment seems to be the impetus for my unusually reactive episodes.
“It’s really none of your business,” I snark under my breath, so overstimulated that all my thoughts just blend together like Rorschach blots on paper. Anger steamrolls over me, pressing into all my sore spots and goading me into saying something I really can’t come back from.
My mother places her hands on her hips—an intimidation pose, and one that always manages to trigger my flight response. She’s normally the more levelheaded of my parents,so when I surpass her threshold of patience, I know I’m in deep shit.
“Excuse me?”
Come on, Merit. Stand up for yourself. You can do it. Your parents are overreacting. You’re not in the wrong here.
My tone borders on apoplectic, delivered with a growl that’s been plumbed from the deep pit of my chest. There’s a fever ravaging my body, and their looks of unjustified disappointment are oxygen to an open flame.
“I wasn’t doing anything illegal. You guys always treat me like a child!”
My father stands up from his seat, the legs of his chair screeching in protest. “We’ll stop treating you like a child when you start acting like an adult,” he barks.
“How am I supposed to act like an adult? No, really. Tell me. You monitor everything I do. You make me relay everything that happens in my day-to-day life. I had to leave my dream school because you were worried I’d drop dead, and now I’m stuck dancing recreationally instead of participating in competitions. You control everything—where I am, who I talk to, what I do.”
